Just Once
by Tare-Bear
Summary: "What do you mean?" Katniss is still not sure whether to be offended or not. Madge looks caught between completely dropping the subject and seizing Katniss by the hands and explaining everything in exquisite detail, telling her of what she's observed – as that is what she does best – through all the years.' Madge/Katniss. Smut; slightly sweet. One-shot.


"What would you give," Madge asks, "to protect those you love?"

Katniss wets her lips and looks around to buy herself time to answer this unexpected question. The forest is empty aside the familiar sounds of song-birds and the tread of small animals. The crispness of the autumn breeze awakens her by breaths, and it is just _Madge_. Soft, town-sculpted Madge, who has been refreshingly neutral company in the past few days – in the past few _weeks_ since the Hunger Games.

Still, she is not sure if the question is meant to be light and curious, like most of the things Madge says tend to be, or if she should take offense – because it seems rather _obvious_ what she would give:

___Anything._

___Everything._

___All that is hers to give._

Despite that, the word she finds falling off her tongue is: "Myself."

Madge's eyes crinkle up at the corners, brow tight. "Would that be enough?"

"Yes."

"You sound so sure." Madge sits up, arms wrapped around her knees like the little girl Katniss had never been and forces eye-contact. "What.. makes it enough? You've already offered your _life_ for Primrose... you've proved that, yes, and you won your life for yourself, but... _you_, yourself, offered over – not your life – is that worth something?" A small smile touches her lips, and she shifts slightly, hugging her knees tighter, saying, "You _are_ rather abrasive, Katniss... cold, calculating, uncooperative, outspoken, single-minded and unpredictable both at once –"

"Is that what you think of me?"

The words come out coolly, and the look in Katniss' eyes is fairly flat and as steely gray as ever.

Madge's smile breaks into something falteringly bolder. "Let's not forget self-conscious," she takes from Katniss' interruption, "or prude, as Gale calls it, and, of course, Peeta calls it 'pure'."

"Can we not talk about them?"

"Possessive?" Madge continues, somewhat puzzled. "I did not think so before, but now –"

Katniss gives a shake of her head, not quite upset at the list of Madge's – it is _true_, most of what she's said – and explains, "I am tired of them... ever since the Games." She gives a long sigh with a sag in her shoulders that was not there moments ago. "After getting home Peeta's been... things have been a mess, and Gale's been... even more confusing? They both want things from me... things I can't –" She breaks off abruptly, straightens, and clears her throat. "Sorry, I didn't mean to.. you don't need to hear.."

Madge lifts a finger. "And reclusive."

Katniss blinks, looking from finger to the blonde's unassuming face. "I invited you out here, didn't I?"

Another finger goes up. "Reckless. "

Katniss pursues her lips. "You didn't have to come," is her tight, careful reply. She doesn't want to be trapped again, and she's not really sure how to play this game anymore than she knows how to handle Haymitch's sarcastic teasing, or Peeta's childish imagination, or Gale's beyond-friendly flirting.

Madge flushes, seemingly doesn't hear, and ticks another finger nonetheless. "Stubborn."

Throwing up a hand, Katniss leans against the tree beside her and – _stubbornly_ – crosses her arms over her chest and refuses to utter another word. Madge gives a smiling shake of her head. "Distant."

Katniss opens her mouth, as if to argue, but then slams it shut, biting her cheek.

"Do you see what I'm trying to say?" Madge relents in the face of Katniss' cooler of stares.

"That I'm not worth anything?" Katniss puts out there flatly; all her defenses are on high.

The fingers go right back up, with an extra one to add: "Defensive."

She scowls, and Madge holds her stare, very steadily, as she raises the next: "Brave."

"Madge –" is the protest on Katniss' lips as she breaks eye-contact; all her patience is dried up.

"You are," Madge insists, and she scoots closer, lowering her voice. "When you were in the arena, you were braver than anyone I knew," but just as quickly as the words are out – to both girl's relief – Madge plunges on: "When you're doing something for Prim, your mother... loved ones... you're passionate, cunning, quick-footed... "

"Don't... I don't want to talk about –"

"Evasive," Madge adds to the list, and then her face softens, becomes once more the face of the mayor's daughter Katniss has always known; the quiet, unassuming girl whose peace brings comfort. She is immensely relieved... until she speaks: "We've been... friends for a long time, Katniss. I know you. Your devotion to your family is unquestionable. You'd do anything for them. And that's your _everything_."

"What do you mean?" She is still not sure whether to be offended or not.

Madge looks caught between completely dropping the subject and seizing Katniss by the hands and explaining everything in exquisite detail, telling her of what she's observed – as that is what she does best – through all the years. She settles on a padded reply of: "They bring the best out of you. Without them... you're.." _less, _is the only word she can think of, but she winces to even assume it, let alone tell Katniss it, and stumbles on to explain: "If you give up yourself for them, at the loss of them, there isn't much to give."

"That's not –"

Madge rests a light hand over hers.

"You can try to give up everything to protect your loved ones, but you without them..."

"I don't even want to talk about this, Madge," Katniss tries once more to unhinge the conversation, too bewildered to argue – actually _argue_ with the ever docile Madge – and uneasy of the topic. "Stop –"

"Why? What would you give?" she jumps to demand. Madge does not seem to notice or care about the way Katniss is fighting to keep from wrenching away from the entire situation, stand up, and strut home. "You are a mess, Katniss. It's not just the Games, but your life... you don't have any interests or hobbies. It's all about surviving. You bore so easily.. and it's understandable, certainly. No one gets by with their family in such conditions like you have without... repercussions. You've become... empty, a person with _one_ purpose. What are you without it? That's the point, I guess. You're not worthless. That's not what I'm saying. You're just... you _know_ that your life will continue to be hollow, standing beside your family day and night, living in their shadows. It will never give you more than a pale echo of the life you could have – that you're scared of having – and in time you will turn ___bitter_, but this is exactly what you must desire because you push away all chances at something _else; _Peeta, Gale –"

"Stop."

Madge relents, then.

Madge's hand on hers is gone. The skin where it had been is chilled, and Katniss shivers. Something about the steady weight of her light, unassuming touch is better than the cold it leaves behind. She watches Madge take a deep breath, lean back, study her, then, with a small, shy gesture: "I'm sorry –"

"You're right."

"I – I am?"

Katniss has a funny feeling that if she says ___no_, outright, taking back her words, Madge will lapse shut again and their comfortable silence will be renewed; just as it was before. Or is she just hoping? Madge may laugh and delight over the fact that she'd gotten even a little victory out of it. She may even allow Katniss to change the subject completely, accepting her victory quietly, knowing she's said what she'd wanted to. And she has. The seed _has_ been planted... and, perhaps, it had already somewhat existed in Katniss' head. Doubt and uncertainty seep into Katniss' thoughts, tainted with an undeniable fear of an impending silence – an emptiness – or an upcoming worthlessness to strip all genuineness from their conversation. The last thing she wants is something like those two things to confirm what Madge has just reinforced. Yet – _yet_ – the air here is strange, and the girl before her is abnormally fickle and bold at the moment, and Katniss fears, instead, for one miniature _sliver_ of a moment, that if she manages to piss Madge off, she'll be forced to spend some of her time regretting it, spending more time alone.

And besides...

There is a curious ___light _in Madge's oil-shine blue eyes and part of Katniss wants to see where it leads.

So, caught between fears, Katniss says nothing, and does nothing, holding Madge's stare.

The Townie girl smiles.

Katniss cocks her head. The wind tugs at the braid against her shoulder, ripples like water. Madge scoots closer, hand fishing out for the braid's tail. She rubs the strand between her fingers. "It's grown out since the Games," Madge acknowledges, eyes downcast, blonde lashes arched halos on high cheekbones. _A lot of things have, _are the unspoken words on the wind, scattering leaves. _You have._

Katniss pulls herself that inch higher, straightening her shoulders, that pulls the braid from Madge's hand.

And, still, says nothing.

The hand glides down to Katniss fist pressed against the ground instead; a soft touch, innocent.

There is nick of a scar on the edge of her thumb; a recent thing, from recent hunts. The Capitol polished most of the other scars away. Madge frowns at the smooth knuckles. "They're soft now."

"They'll be hard again, soon enough," says Katniss, stiffly, curling the fist tighter.

Madge's lips purse. Cold fingers skate up Katniss' bony wrist and rest against the hunting jacket's sleeve. She rubs the fabric between her fingers as if this, too, she can make an inference on; as if she could name the very amount of stitching in it. Her head lifts, tipped aside just a fraction; curious.

"Did they take _all_ of your scars?"

"Most."

"All?"

"The most important. The deeper and older ones show through after the initial polish."

"Show me."

Katniss blinks, caught between being incredulous, confused, and suspicious. "_Show_ you?"

It is Madge's turn to say nothing and do nothing, holding the Seam girl's sharp stare.

The stare holds. Katniss is just as stubborn, if not a million times more, than her.

But, after a moment, Katniss makes a sound, caught between an embarrassed, scornful scoff, and stale amusement, as if hoping that at any moment Madge will start to laugh and shatter the sudden weight in the air. She doesn't. Madge flushes and her hand falls away from Katniss' and the weight _adds_.

"Will you?" Madge rephrases, less demanding; shy.

"There's a scar on my arm," Katniss finally relents. Somehow saying that one truth pushes the air from her chest – _see, it's not that hard –_ and she rolls her sleeve up to just above the crook of her elbow.

Madge glances from Katniss' face to the faint pink line on her dark skin. "What from?"

"Wild dog," she says, flippant and flat. "It's claws caught me as I was climbing a tree."

Absently, Madge's hand rubs at her own unmarked arm, then frowns. "Did you get away?"

"I shot it from the tree, yeah."

"Guess I knew that," she mutters, then sighs. "Others?"

Katniss' lips thin, and the truth of that is in her eyes – there _are_ others – but she shifts her weight onto her other hand, brushing the free one against her collarbone, uncertain about the entire thing. "Why?"

Surprisingly, Madge's lips give a sharp curl, amusement heavy in her eyes. "Worried?"

"What would I be worried about?" Katniss says. She passes a look over a shoulder – looking unintentionally very much like a child guilty of _something_. "I just don't see the point of this."

"Does everything need to have a point?"

"Yes."

The word is as flat as her words get.

Madge actually laughs. Albeit, breezily, and perhaps a little nervously, but it is a laugh.

"Take it off," Madge says softly, at last, and if it were any louder Katniss might have hazard it was an order – no, she's joking, _surely_ – but she _isn't_. "Come on, we're just two girls," Madge continues to add in that more familiar, unimposing voice; the one that has been lightly applied to Katniss' school lunches for years. "I haven't any scars like yours. They're interesting. Don't you want to brag a little?"

_Brag, she says, _is the look in Katniss' eyes.

She's definitely incredulous now, and no longer suspicious.

"They weren't fun or interesting to get, Madge," is her serious reply. They're serious people here. Serious _solemn_ people who scowl or _shy_, not brag or make fun. She wishes Madge would remember.

"I know that," she says. "Still, it _was_ brave. I'm not like that... I'm just not. But you've always been."

"And?"

_The point: _"I like it."

"The scars?"

Madge colors. "The brave part."

"So?" Katniss' face scrunches in confusion. "I'm still not seeing the point. You already said I was brave. It's a good thing, I thought. Did you not mean it as a good thing just before when you listed it?"

"I'm not insulting you, Katniss." There! The point – or close, right? _Close enough,_ Madge thinks.

Closer than she's ever come to saying it before. Closer to something Katniss will ever understand.

Katniss decides Madge is not, in fact, insulting her. She gives a shake of her head.

There are very few people she would pull her shirt off for – and they all consist of platonic relationships, like with Prim, or Cinna and her stylists, or her mother – and yet, she's no longer quite so self-conscious about showing the scars. Certainly not here, in her woods, and certainly not to a being as docile as Madge. It's almost like she's not being watched at all. She shucks her coat and her shirt in easy maneuvers, in two smooth moments with all the balance of a hunter, and stopping only when Madge's eyes suddenly look down. She's left in just her bra, pants, and boots. It's fall; the air is cold, the ground musty and damp beneath them. The other girl's blue eyes skate over the scars on her skin, and it's the careful nothingness in them – not the chill air, not the exposure – that makes Katniss shiver.

And yet, she is not self-conscious. With Peeta, or with Gale, she'd be shrinking on the inside.

Madge indicates a pale hand to the scar across Katniss' ribs. "What about that one?"

"Slipped on the ice one winter," Katniss replies, the answer coming surprisingly easy. She even graces the pink, barely visible mark with a few fingers, shivering again. "Landed on the stump of a fallen tree. The prongs were sharp enough to tear through my shirt. I picked splinters out of it for weeks."

"Must have hurt."

She shrugs.

"And this?"

She does not move when Madge's thumb touches the mark on her shoulder tip like a swimmer that just dips a toe in to test the water. The touch is warm. "I don't remember," Katniss admits, dipping the shoulder away only to rub thoughtfully at the mark. Her hand is frigid in comparison. She can feel Madge's entire body's warmth just a foot away and can't figure out _why_ it does not perturb her.

"Are there any others?" Madge says softly a few minutes later.

Katniss' eyes flick up to hers, and she starts when she realizes they'd been sitting in silence.

"Uh." She actually has to glance down at her torso to decide. Her hand passes against her lower back; she finds what she thought she might. Nodding curtly, she twists, giving Madge her back. "There."

A pause. Madge's soft fingers ghost across the edge of her spine. "Here?"

Katniss frowns. "No, lower –" She runs a finger over the scar. " – right _here_."

Madge bites a cheek, hard. Her hand runs down the hard edge of a bra strap. "Here?" Softer.

"Madge –" Exasperation, frustration, a slight gutting of tone that suggests a tighter throat.

Fingers curl underneath the fastening of Katniss' bra. "Here?"

Katniss goes still as death, stomach knotted in a strangely painful way. She twists away, meaning to turn about and put distance between them, but the sudden feeling of lightness on her chest is concerning, and the air is _very_ cold, and her arms can't move fast enough to keep the bra where it _belongs_.

"Madge." This time her tone is positively _sharp_.

The hand is gone, quick as that; remorse. "Sorry."

"_Fix it._" The words are edged with an iciness that makes Madge's remorse turn into actual fear.

Embarrassed, fumbling with both hands to re-hook it, Madge murmurs, "I didn't – I'm sorry – I won't.."

"What are you playing at?" Katniss asks, when it's been righted and she's reaching for her shirt.

"I don't know," mumbles the suddenly _un_-fickle, _un_-bold Madge; the normal one. "I just.."

"Just?" Katniss says archly, pulling her braid out from under the collar of her shirt. "For fun?"

Madge wrings her hands together in her lap, gnaws her lips, and her cheeks are a brilliant red; as guilty looking as one got. She does not respond until Katniss is pulling on her jacket, and when she does speak, Katniss stalls in the moment entirely, the jacket sliding right back off. "You're doing it now."

"Doing what? I haven't done anything at all. You –"

"You push Peeta and Gale out, too."

Katniss' face reddens. "That's different."

"Is it?" Madge says, weakly, looking off into the trees to their right.

"They're..." Katniss' face rearranges itself into something akin to defensiveness, but that melts quickly, so caught off guard she is, and so she's just frowning by the time she pushes out the words: "_Is _it?"

Madge shrugs. "Forget I said anything."

As much as that would please Katniss to completely forget what's been done here, she continues to stare at Madge. _New_ thoughts have been seeded and now she can't even wrap her head around the possible conclusions to them... and she's not good at assuming... at least not in _that_ direction – so...

"You don't..." Katniss struggles to be articulate, per usual. "What they want... isn't... the same?"

Madge appears to ignore the statement, but eventually she cracks. She lets out a long sigh and falls back against the leaf-strewn ground, eyes closed and hair spilling across the fallen canopy. "Yes."

"Yes, what?"

"I suppose I do want the same things they do." She loosely twists a bracelet on her wrist; reconsiders. "Well, in the general sense. I don't expect much. Or anything. I –" Embarrassment overcomes her then.

Katniss lets the silence last as long as it can; several minutes.

"At least I said something," Madge finally murmurs, pushing herself up, brushing herself off as she stands, and does _not_ look at Katniss. "I understand... I won't hold it against you. I didn't expect much."

_Do you ever? _Katniss almost asks. She watches Madge straighten her pretty blue blouse emotionlessly, then touches the collar of her own shirt, where the Mockingjay pin had nestled throughout the Games.

As Madge tries to leave in a dignified way, it becomes rather clear she does not know where they are, or what direction the District is, nor does Katniss think she'll be able to find the right side of the gate to come out to, or even how to listen for the electric buzz. Madge just stands, staring out in the distance, refusing to turn back and ask for the help she knows she'll need to get away from there.

"Madge –"

A brittle smile crosses over her strawberry-pink lips. "Don't worry about me, Katniss."

Guilt hits her _hard_, then. It has just dawned on her that she's actually _rejected_ Madge. Her pride must be stinging, and her feelings – _feelings_, Katniss thinks incredulously – must be wounded as well.

But it's not as if Madge has declared undying love, like Peeta.

And it's not as if Madge has kissed her, like Gale.

The bra – well that was –

From either Peeta or Gale it might have seemed _forward_... even a little perverse and intruding.

Looking back on it now, it seemed harmless. It was just play. It was only _Madge_.

The guilt burns and eats Katniss up as she watches Madge stand there, pretending not to be lost.

"Madge," she sighs this time, feeling horrible. There is pity in it, too. "I didn't know."

"Good," she replies, voice painfully chipper. "It's what I hoped. I didn't want you to know before."

She crosses her arms over her chest, shifting onto the other leg, and still will _not_ look at Katniss.

"What changed?"

"Nothing will change. It's as it was."

_Can it be? _Katniss mourns the loss of normalcy between them from that moment on. "Why tell me?"

"I almost did before... when you volunteered and I gave you the pin."

"But why _now?_ Here? The scars –"

"Opportune moment? You are upset at Gale and Peeta. You've been with me the past few weeks..."

"And the bra.."

"I felt bold."

Ringing silence follows.

Madge finally gives up her dignity and turns about, face open and sincere. Katniss tries not to wince. "I have another question," she says, hugging her torso tightly. "It's related to my first one, sort of."

"The one about what I would give?"

"Sort of."

Katniss breaks eye contact and nods. "Okay, ask me."

"If you were free, if you weren't tied to your family and loved ones, what would you do?"

"I don't..." Katniss takes a slow breath.

"Do you know?"

Katniss purses her lips, thinking.

Madge takes those few steps back and lowers herself on her knees in front of her, head tilted. "If you were free, would you not... would you still push away? Or do you just not like them... and me? If you didn't despise the idea of family would you accept Peeta or Gale? If it's your only reason... then I..."

_I don't hold the same risks as them; _Katniss understands that this is what she's trying to say.

"I'm not asking... I don't expect –"

"Then what are you asking?" Katniss cuts in, groping for this one point in the conversation. "If you don't want that, and you do want the same thing as them, what is it you need from me exactly?"

"Anything you're willing to give."

That's not an answer _at all_. "You have to have been expecting something."

"I hadn't." Damn it, she's being earnest. "I did _want_..."

"What is it you want, then?"

Katniss realizes she fears the answer of _that_ once it's left her mouth.

"You."

Squirmy – that's how she feels. "No you don't."

"I do. Maybe not like Peeta does, up on a pedestal, and not as my best friend or wife, like Gale."

"How?"

A stray hand, fingers on her arm, quick and fluttering like a butterfly. "Like I.. implied."

"Sex?" Katniss says, as blunt as ever, but with a prude-related off-centered lilt to her voice.

Madge wheezes a laugh. "Not exactly that much, or that blunt, or anything. Just.."

She leans forward and kisses her.

Katniss doesn't have the heart to jerk back – doesn't really feel the _need_ to. Madge is soft against her mouth. Her hands are soft and warm against her wind whipped cheeks, her body small and impossibly soft, too, against her; there is no solid chest to meet hers, no stubbled jaw to prick her face, no –

Madge draws back, barely. Her eyes are hooded; her breath forcibly calm. "Just once," is what she says, as her hand skates sweetly down Katniss' back. She shivers, and it's not in the unwelcoming way at all, and Madge's blue eyes are an ocean into which she could probably drown herself in quite easily, if she let herself – _just once,_she thinks. It's not an entirely unwelcome thought, either. Katniss' breath hisses out between her lips and she nods, just barely, thinking of the pin and the forest about them, and the warmth pulsing underneath the hands she's rested against Madge's waist. What harm could it be?

None, apparently.

There seems to be something rising out of Madge, once she realizes that Katniss is kissing her back and that Katniss is responding to her _touch_. She smiles into the kiss, and her head tilts just that _curious_ inch that Katniss has so recently discovered. Her hands firm and gain _purpose_. They slip down to Katniss' hips and lift, sliding and shimming them back until she has Katniss up against the bark of an oak tree.

"Trust me," Madge breathes, lips traveling from lips to chin, to neck.

Katniss stares out past the blonde's head to the distant roll of trees, her breath heavy and her body unconsciously arching up into Madge's, despite the roughness of the bark beneath her. "I do."

Surprisingly, yes – she _does_, very much.

With an unhurried hand, Madge pulls Katniss' shirt once more over her head and sets it aside. Her lips continue to travel downward, scattering across the collarbones and the curved edge of that same faded gray bra, while one of her hands – the one not firmed up against Katniss' hip – slides casually down her inner thigh, then up again, then curves around her cunt, the edge of her palm rubbing up and down the hard seam on the crotch of Katniss' jeans. Katniss shifts against it, making a soft sound; it feels good.

Unbuttoning said jeans proves to be difficult, because Katniss can see Madge's hands, despite being eager, have a slight tremor running through them; excitement? fear? _desire?_ Katniss reaches down and takes the blonde's wrist in hand; stalling her. Madge's eyes flick up. "Do you want to stop?" she asks.

"Do you?" Katniss answers.

Madge's eyes roam over her face; slowly, her tight, anxious expression softens. An unshaken hand cups her cheek for a mere second, as if just to grasp the reality of it, trails a finger down the length of her clenched jaw, then tucks a stray strand of hair behind an ear. The entire time Madge does not make direct eye contact, but then she looks down, and says, "I just don't want to mess up this one chance."

In no position to give advice and loathing the idea of reassuring her, for no more reason than that her stomach has suddenly gone tight with emotions un-related to sex, Katniss merely shifts into a position that allows her to unhook her bra, sets it aside, and takes both Madge's hands, placing one on a bare breast, and returning the other to the zipper of her jean's. "Don't worry about that," is what she says.

Then they are kissing again, and there remains to be no leftover uncertainty in Madge's touch.

Madge's warm hands are an antidote to the autumn cold; she wants her hands to be touching her everywhere to stave off the wind, but they can't possibly touch her everywhere at once or move around near fast enough to keep her from shivering uncontrollably. They just remind the rest of her skin what warmth is, leaving gooseflesh in their wake; running up her back, gripping a side, sliding up her stomach, cupping or kneading a breast. Hotter, still, Madge's mouth, damp and soft, latches onto a nipple. Katniss whines, grips the blonde's hair, and curls her nails into her scalp. Madge rolls the nipple between her lips, pressing it down between them, and it's hard, but the lips are too soft and wet to hurt, and then her tongue drags around it, circles it, and the other breast is frozen and aching in comparison.

With her hands Katniss encourages Madge to the other. Madge's own hands move up and cup both breasts, pressing them closer to her face, small as they are. Katniss wriggles slightly against the tree to get in a better, more comfortable, position, but does so unsuccessfully. Madge aids her by lifting herself up onto her knees, then pushing one of these knees far enough forward to press up against Katniss' crotch and ass. Using this knee, and wrapping a momentary arm around her waist, she helps lift Katniss up against the bark, and then as Katniss realizes the advantages of this, she continues pressing down against this knee. Madge continues ravaging her chest, leaving red marks where she sucks on the salty skin for too long, and as she does so, Katniss increasingly shifts against this knee, until she's all out riding it; but, of course, this is through two pairs of jeans and, soon, this is not enough.

Madge wipes a hand over her own cheeks; wet with her own saliva that she'd brushed up against after licking it onto Katniss' chest. She smiles, minimally, and then, with a hand under Katniss' bicep, urges the Seam girl to her feet. Once both standing, Madge finishes unzipping Katniss' jeans, and as Katniss kicks them off of her ankle Madge's fingers hurriedly, almost sloppily in their quickness, takes out Katniss' braid, letting the long, crimped, black hair fall all around Katniss' face and shoulders.

"Your hair is so soft," Madge murmurs.

Katniss does not respond; not verbally.

Katniss tries to pull her back to the ground, hoping to continue what had already been happening, but Madge stalls her and keeps her up against the tree. "It's dirty down there," she says, brushing the hair free of one side of Katniss' neck. She kisses it, lightly. "I don't want you to sit naked in the leaves and dirt." The wrinkle in her nose reminds Katniss so suddenly of the dramatic differences in their upbringings, as if she'd previously forgotten, but then, as if in a switch of it, Madge sinks down to her haunches, places a steadying hand against the inside of Katniss' thigh, and tips her head back to look up to Katniss. If anything, Katniss feels, Madge should not be the one kneeling in the dirt, but –

The thought ends abruptly, as Madge nuzzles her mouth against Katniss' cunt.

Katniss tenses, bracing herself against the tree and the hand that Madge still has rested against her thigh. Madge's tongue, somehow, impossibly, _hotter_ than before, dashes out and up and Katniss finds her hands once more in Madge's curls. She almost whines, deep in her throat, but locks her jaw and bites her cheek, and screws her eyes shut, and resists the urge to ride Madge's face, just as she was riding Madge's knee minutes ago. There's little need to, because Madge provides quite enough friction herself, using the flat of her tongue to wet and smooth, and then the tip of her tongue to flick and tease and circle the clit.

Katniss finds her legs resisting a lot more than her mind is; vague thoughts of how vulgar and wrong and strange this is filter quickly through her brain, getting stopped short as each new thrill of pleasure runs up her body, and then getting recycled, for later scrutiny. Muscles contract throughout her lower abdomen, shaking, and sometimes, contracting so suddenly and sharply, it brings her forward, hunching. Something similar happens in her thighs, but in the opposite effect, cinching them together, or willing them to any way. Katniss resists what the muscles are so burning to do and they begin to shake with the effort of keeping them apart. "Madge," she breathes; it's gruttle. "Madge, don't – "

Her stomach contracts again, and she jerks forward, curls her fingers tighter into Madge's hair, and stays there, panting. She can hear Madge's own ragged breathing against her hot skin; she can _feel_ it.

"Can I?" Madge says, the sound muffled. There's a finger rubbing down between the petals of Katniss' cunt, and then it stops, poised against her entrance, circles it; burns it, somehow in both some vague discomfort or pain, but pleasure, too; and Katniss isn't quite so sure that it's not just so much pleasure that it has just become painful. All she knows is that she sudden feels empty and everything inside of her is clenched in anticipation of that finger.

She gives a curt nod, but then realizes Madge can't see that. "Yes," comes the straggled reply. She's surprised by her own voice; it livens her logistic side somewhat, opens her eyes a bit wider, but she doesn't momentarily remember why it doesn't sound like her own. She doesn't remember very much beyond Madge, or really, the pleasure Madge is giving her. Are they in the woods? Is that the sun sinking behind the trees? Have they missed dinner? How long will it be before they get back to District 12? There's a District 12? Is there really other people in the world other than Madge – Madge and her hot, sweet mouth, suckling at her – Madge and her finger sinking deep inside her, cold in comparison, and curling just _so_ – ?

Katniss moans then, without meaning to, and bites into her cheek, _hard_, not caring about the pain.

Madge continues for some time like that, but, eventually, she withdraws her mouth and finger. She stands, and rests her sticky digit against Katniss' bottom lip. "Taste it," she encourages, softly.

Katniss, uncertainty, does as she is bid. It's bitter; salty in a way, but mostly bitter. She makes a face.

Madge laughs.

But then, Katniss draws the finger deeper into her mouth and wraps her tongue around it, sucking, and Madge's face suddenly becomes a little more serious, a little more flushed – aroused, if not more.

When she draws her finger out between Katniss teeth, edges sharp, the moment seems longer than it is, because she's looking right up into those gray eyes and they don't close or look away; for once.

Katniss shoulders curve under the gentle press of Madge's hands snaking over them. They turn her. Her stomach brushes the tree. The hands slide down and over her back, still pressing gently, and she finds herself bowing slightly, hands braced against the tree above her head. The sound of Katniss' breathing is loud upon the air. It comes shuddering out of her. One of Madge's hands snakes up her arm, pinning it to the tree; the rest of Madge's body melts against her form, and it's like being cradled by water, if water had motion and ___intent_, and all the tension goes draining out of Katniss because –

Because she does not want to resist, not truly.

Because –

Madge's breath tickles the back of her neck.

The hand not pinning Katniss' arm skates down her ribs and stomach. Katniss arches, pressing her ass harder against Madge, and the hand, instead of going straight for her crotch, slides along her navel, back up her side, and finds that scar on her ribs; and then it moves on and continues to map out her entire body, finding all the scars, ingratiating itself against her skin in hard-pressing fingertips, or whisper thin fingernail scratches, or a wide flat palm that she can feel so solidly and deeply it's as if she's touching bone, and the touch is warm and soft and ___curious_. It's personal. It's about as personal and intimate as it got; it could only get more so if Katniss was facing her and they were holding eye contact – and Katniss is greatly relieved they aren't. It would be so intimate it would be terrifying if it weren't so very ___real. __Katniss_ keeps herself perfectly still and tries to ignore the pounding of blood in her ears.

Finally, Madge's hand finds her cunt again; stroking softly.

Katniss' stomach tightens, pleased. She braces herself more fully against the tree, inadvertently pushing against Madge, and Madge braces her own body right back, both pressing against the other; and Katniss knows she's stronger and she can probably knock Madge right over if she wanted, but, again, after a moment, the tension goes right out of her limbs, leaving her feeling loose and fluid, and Madge firms her up against the tree. A stubborn instinct in her causes Katniss to push back a little, though; a testing sort of nudge. Madge pushes right back, harder this time, and Katniss' breath tightens; not due to any pressure, but even more pleased than before. Would Madge hold her up against the tree?

That thought is far more appealing than it should be. Her tongue passes out over her lips. A small nudge of her ass against Madge's front brings just what she wanted; a stronger hold on her arm – Madge's nails bite into her forearm – and Madge's entire body is now holding her up against the tree, and at the same time, she is held down by it; sinking into it; being wrapped up by it. There is the sand paper of the bark against her breasts and the weight of Madge's chest against her back, and then there is the feel of two fingers sinking inside of her and a thumb rubbing at her clit, and she feels so much, the stimulation overwhelms her and she feels and yet doesn't feel it all at once. Katniss forgets to breathe, for a moment. The hand on her arm moves down to the curve of her throat, fingers tight against her suddenly-racing pulse. Madge's hair falls against her back, mingles with hers; gold and black. She smells of something crisply sweet – pomegranate? Soft lips kiss her jaw and the side of her face.

The fingers increase their speed; occasionally slowing and pressing hard against the sweet spot just inside of her entrance. This feels best when Katniss herself tries to move; hips arching up and then down against bark; against the arm of Madge's crossed over her stomach and the hand-wrist cupped against her crotch. She's not just moaning; it's more like whimpering. "Madge," she says – gasps.

She has to close her eyes. Her cheeks are flushed red. This is mad. This is completely out of the ordinary. This feels so, so good. She doesn't want Madge to ever stop. _She has to close her eyes_ because this is wrong, and yet, the girl pinning to this tree, fucking her against a tree, is so lax and seemingly, horribly, ___unconcerned_ about the oddity and wrongness of it, of fucking her friend – an otherwise completely straight friend – in the forest, no less, and it's startling to her that she suddenly agrees and does not find it wrong in any way, because how can something that feels so good be wrong?

It's come to the point so close to climax that suddenly everything feels okay and right and good.

And everything, all of this, all of that strange talk and the loss of normalcy between them, seems worth this one whirling-light-headed moment. Heat spreads all over her body. Her thighs are shaking again. Every brush of thumb against her clit is a snapping bow string inside of her – or piano string, she thinks, incoherently, after a moment; remembering Madge's affinity for music.

She doesn't know what she expected but it's not ___this –_

Her hips surge forward now – a useless gesture that chafes her skin against the bark of the tree. Madge's breathing is hard, now, too, and she doesn't know why, because she's still fully clothed – and the fact strikes Katniss by how completely unfair it is, because this feels good and Madge should feel good, too; but then again it's perfectly right, because it's unselfish of Madge and she _is _selfish, she supposes, so it puts something on balance; they're so completely opposite; it's her perfect counterpart.

"_Faster_ – "

Madge's mouth latches onto her throat, sucking; a hint of teeth. Her fingers work harder; twist and turn and press outward at all of her inner walls and wriggle and it's still too slow; still ___too much_.

"Shh," Madge says quietly; a hand running through her hair. She'd been making soft sounds under her breath without realizing it; and it only increases into moaning when Madge wraps her fist into her hair and holds it firmly – tugs it slightly, cause Katniss' face to tip up. "Shh," she breathes again. "Let go."

Katniss knows she's not just speaking of the way her muscles have drawn tight again and the air comes hot and too-fast through her nose. They'd been talking about something serious before. She thinks desperately (it's hard, so hard, to think at all and she ___doesn't want to_). They'd been talking about _devotion – over devotion? Or had it been desire and expectations? _The only thing she remembers with any clarity, strangely, is the underlying meaning of Madge's words when she'd been discussing what she offered in comparison to Gale and Peeta: _I don't hold the same risks as them._ She tries to reply.

It comes out as, "Don't stop," and, "I need this."

She wants release more than ever now. She wants surrender and sleep and ending___. S_he wants guilt that disperses into dust and absolution that will erase any memories of it. She wants – she wants –

She _wants_.

She can't. She wants to. She shouldn't want to. She ___can't._

_Ah._

"___Let go_," says Madge again, voice even and patient, and Katniss' whole body twitches. There's sweat on her lower back. She goes impossible tense, then the tenseness unravels inside of her. She withers. She rides the orgasm out against Madge's hand. She opposes the hand that's fisted into her hair and the pain running up her scalp feels good as the pleasure pulses up through her abdomen. And then, Katniss goes limp against the blonde holding her up to a tree and she shivers. She can't quite catch her breath.

She can feel her pulse in her wrists, in her ribs, in her thighs – in every piece of skin.

She can feel her rapid-yet-slowing heartbeat in her head.

Madge's own breathing slows, and her wet hand rubs down the side of Katniss' thigh. The hand in her hair moves to stroke the side of her face. Katniss turns into the touch; she can't help it. Madge sighs.

Time passes; not too long, but a significant amount as Katniss sags against her and tries to recover some sort of composure. She feels wretched and pliable and empty within, but at the same time a sweet feeling lingers in her body and there is relief. She dreads the eventual turning; the meeting of eyes. It's so much easier to pretend when she's not looking Madge in the face. She dreads any words that'll pass; mostly because she does not know what to say, despite having felt perfectly fine moments before this.

Thankfully, when Madge does step back and offers Katniss her clothing, there are no words; no questions about feelings, place and belonging, longing and devotion. It's just this: shivering, until Katniss has managed to tug on all her clothing, and a light press of Madge's lips to her cheek, once they reach the gate leading back into District 12. It's dark by then; the sun having just disappeared beyond the horizon. It's only these words: _just once. _Except this time it's phrased as a question, "Just once?"

Katniss presses her lips together, thinking.

"Just once?" she echos back to Madge, not looking at her, but at the distant trees of the forest.

Madge smiles; a brilliant beam that brightens her face, so much so, there's no need to miss the sun.

"Just once," Madge replies, then, the words deep with satisfaction and light with suggestiveness.


End file.
